IE  MAGIC   HOUSE 
AND  OTHER 
POEMS 


DUNCAN 

CAMPBELL 

SCOTT 


GIFT   OF 
Professor  Hinds 


THE  MAGIC  HOUSE 


THE 

MAGIC  HOUSE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 
DUNCAN  CAMPBELL  SCOTT 


BOSTON 

COPELAND  AND  DAY 

1895 


V. 


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\ 


^    V 


vr    tf-\      €>  3»  «=> 


v\.-^s 


C     C  c         c 


■ 


TO 


MY  MOTHER 


or 

f 


a  a 


M4109: 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  LITTLE  SONG 

The  sunset  in  the  rosy  west,  ....  i 

THE  HILL  PATH 

Are  the  little  breezes  blind,    ....  2 

THE  VOICE  AND  THE  DUSK 

The  slender  moon  and  one  pale  star,       .         .  5 

FOR  REMEMBRANCE 

It  would  be  sweet  to  think  when  we  are  old,  .  7 

THE  MESSAGE 

Wind  of  the  gentle  summer  night,  .         .  8 

THE  SILENCE  OF  LOVE 

My  heart  would  need  the  earth,     .         .         .         10 

AN  IMPROMPTU 

The  stars  are  in  the  ebon  sky,         .         .         .         1 1 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FROM  THE  FARM  ON  THE  HILL 

The  night  wind  moves  the  gloom,  .         .         .  13 

AT  SCARBORO'  BEACH 

The  wave  is  over  the  foaming  reef,  .  1 5 

THE  FIFTEENTH  OF  APRIL 

Pallid  saffron  glows  the  broken  stubble,  .         1 7 

IN  AN  OLD  QUARRY 

Above  the  lifeless  pools  the  mist  films  swim,  .         19 

TO  WINTER 

Come,  O  thou  conqueror  of  the  flying  year,    .         20 

TO  WINTER 

Come,  O  thou  season  of  intense  repose,  .         21 

THE  IDEAL 

Let  your  soul  grow  a  thing  apart,  .         .         .         22 

A  SUMMER  STORM 

Last  night  a  storm  fell  on  the  world,      .         .         23 

LIFE  AND  DEATH 

I  thought  of  death  beside  the  lonely  sea,         .         25 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

IN  THE  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 

This  is  the  acre  of  unfathomed  rest,        .         .         26 

SONG 

I  have  done, 32 

THE  MAGIC  HOUSE 

In  her  chamber,  wheresoe'er,  •         •         •         33 

IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  DREAMS 

The  lady  Lillian  knelt  upon  the  sward,  .         .         36 

THE  RIVER  TOWN 

There 's  a  town  where  shadows  run,        .         .         38 

OFF  THE  ISLE  AUX  COUDRES 

The  moon,  Capella,  and  the  Pleiades,     .         .         40 

AT  LES  EBOULEMENTS 

The  bay  is  set  with  ashy  sails,         .         .         .         41 

ABOVE  ST.  IRENEE 

I  rested  on  the  breezy  height,,         ...         42 

WRITTEN  IN  A.  LAMPMAN'S  POEMS 

When  April  moved  in  maiden  guise,       .         .         45 


i  CONTENTS 

FAGE 

OFF  RIVIERE  1)U  LOUP 

0  ship  incoming  from  the  Bea,        ...         48 

AT  THE  CEDARS 

You  had  two  girls — Baptiste —  .         .         .  50 

THE  END  OF  THE  DAY 

1  hear  the  bells  at  eventide,        .         .         .         -54 

THE  REED-PLAYER 

By  a  dim  shore  where  water  darkening,     .         .      56 

A  FLOCK  OF  SHEEP 

Over  the  field  the  bright  air  clings  and  tingles,       58 

A  PORTRAIT 

All  her  hair  is  softly  set, 60 

AT  THE  LATTICE 

Good-night,  Marie,  I  kiss  thine  eyes,  .         .     63 

THE  FIRST  SNOW 

The  field  pools  gathered  into  frosted  lace,  .     64 

IN  NOVEMBER 

The  ruddy  sunset  lies,        .         .         .         .         .66 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

THE  SLEEPER 

Touched  with  some  divine  repose,      .         .         .68 

A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE 

The  world  is  heated  seven  times,        .         .         .70 

MEMORY 

I  see  a  schooner  in  the  bay,        .         .         .         .72 


YOUTH  AND  TIME 

Move  not  so  lightly,  Time,  away,       .         .         -73 

A  MEMORY  OF  THE  <  INFERNO ' 

An  hour  before  the  dawn  I  dreamed  of  you,       .     74 

LA  BELLE  FERONIERE, 

I  never  trod  where  Leonardo  was,      .         .         -75 

A  NOVEMBER  DAY 

There  are  no  clouds  above  the  world,         .         .     76 

OTTAWA 

City  about  whose  brow  the  north  winds  blow,     .     78 

SONG 

Here 's  the  last  rose,  .         .         .         .         •     79 


xii  CONTEN'I  s 

PAGE 

NIGHT  AND  THE  PINES 

Here  in  the  pine  shade  is  the  nest  of  night,  80 

A  NIGHT  IN  MARCH 

At  eve  the  fiery  sun  went  forth,  .         .         .82 

SEPTEMBER 

The  morns  are  grey  with  haze  and  faintly  cold,       86 

BY  THE  WILLOW  SPRING 

Come  hither,  Care,  and  look  on  this  fair  place,       87 


A  LITTLE  SONG 

The  sunset  in  the  rosy  west 

Burned  soft  and  high  ; 
A  shore-lark  fell  like  a  stone  to  his  nest 

In  the  waving  rye. 

A  wind  came  over  the  garden  beds 

From  the  dreamy  lawn, 
The  pansies  nodded  their  purple  heads. 

The  poppies  began  to  yawn. 

One  pansy  said :  It  is  only  sleep, 

Only  his  gentle  breath  : 
But  a  rose  lay  strewn  in  a  snowy  heap, 

For  the  rose  it  was  only  death. 

Heigho,  we  've  only  one  life  to  live, 

And  only  one  death  to  die  : 
Good-morrow,  new  world,  have  you  nothing 
to  give  ? — 

Good-bye,  old  world,  good-bye. 


THE  HJLL  PATH 


«     « i. 


THE  HILL  PATH 


TO  H.  D.  S. 


Are  the  little  breezes  blind, 
They  that  push  me  as  they  pass  ? 
Do  they  search  the  tangled  grass 
For  some  path  they  want  to  find  ? 
Take  my  fingers,  little  wind  ; 
You  are  all  alone,  and  I 
Am  alone  too.     I  will  guide, 
You  will  follow  ;  let  us  go 
By  a  pathway  that  I  know, 
Leading  down  the  steep  hillside, 
Past  the  little  sharp-lipped  pools, 
Shrunken  with  the  summer  sun, 
Where  the  sparrows  come  to  drink ; 
And  we'll  scare  the  little  birds, 
Coming  on  them  unawares  ; 
And  the  daisies  every  one 


THE  HILL  PATH 

We  will  startle  on  the  brink 

Of  a  doze. 

(Gently,  gently,  little  wind), 

Very  soon  a  wood  we'll  see, 

There  my  lover  waits  for  me. 

(Go  more  gently,  little  wind, 

You  should  follow  soft,  behind.) 

You  will  hear  my  lover  say 

How  he  loves  me  night  and  day, 

But  his  words  you  must  not  tell 

To  the  other  little  winds, 

For  they  all  might  come  to  hear, 

And  might  rustle  through  the  wood, 

And  disturb  the  solitude. 

(Blow  more  softly,  little  wind, 

You  are  tossing  all  my  hair, 

Go  more  gently,  have  a  care  ; 

If  you  lead  you  can't  be  blind, 

So, — good-bye :) 

There  he  goes  :  I  see  his  feet 

On  the  grass ; 

Now  the  little  pools  are  blurred 

As  they  pass  ; 

And  he  must  be  very  fleet, 


THE  HILL  PATH 

For  I  see  the  bushes  stirred 
Near  the  wood.     I  hope  he  '11  tell. 
If  he  isn't  out  of  breath, 
That  he  met  me  on  the  hill. 
But  I  hope  he  will  not  say 
That  he  kissed  me  for  good-bye 
Just  before  he  flew  away. 


THE  VOICE  AND  THE  DUSK 


THE  VOICE  AND  THE  DUSK 

The  slender  moon  and  one  pale  star, 

A  rose-leaf  and  a  silver  bee 
From  some  god's  garden  blown  afar, 

Go  down  the  gold  deep  tranquilly. 

Within  the  south  there  rolls  and  grows 
A  mighty  town  with  tower  and  spire, 

From  a  cloud  bastion  masked  with  rose 
The  lightning  flashes  diamond  fire. 

The  purple-martin  darts  about 

The  purlieus  of  the  iris  fen ; 
The  king-bird  rushes  up  and  out, 

He  screams  and  whirls  and  screams  again. 

A  thrush  is  hidden  in  a  maze 

Of  cedar  buds  and  tamarac  bloom, 

He  throws  his  rapid  flexile  phrase, 
A  flash  of  emeralds  in  the  gloom. 


THE  VOICE  AND  THE  DUSK 

A  voice  is  singing  from  the  hill 

A  happy  love  of  long  ago  ; 
Ah  !  tender  voice,  be  still,  be  still, 

'  'Tis  sometimes  better  not  to  know.' 

The  rapture  from  the  amber  height 
Floats  tremblingly  along  the  plain, 

Where  in  the  reeds  with  fairy  light 
The  lingering  fireflies  gleam  again. 

Buried  in  dingles  more  remote, 
Or  drifted  from  some  ferny  rise, 

The  swooning  of  the  golden  throat 
Drops  in  the  mellow  dusk  and  dies. 

A  soft  wind  passes  lightly  drawn, 
A  wave  leaps  silverly  and  stirs 

The  rustling  sedge,  and  then  is  gone 
Down  the  black  cavern  in  the  firs. 


FOR  REMEMBRANCE 


FOR  REMEMBRANCE 

It  would  be  sweet  to  think  when  we  are  old 
Of  all  the  pleasant  days  that  came  to  pass. 
That  here  we  took  the  berries  from  the  grass, 

There  charmed  the  bees  with  pans,  and  smoke  un- 
rolled, 

And  spread  the  melon  nets  when  nights  were  cold, 
Or  pulled  the  blood-root  in  the  underbrush, 
And  marked  the  ringing  of  the  tawny  thrush, 

While  all  the  west  was  broken  burning  gold. 

And  so  I  bind  with  rhymes  these  memories ; 

As  girls  press  pansies  in  the  poet's  leaves 
And  find  them  afterwards  with  sweet  surprise ; 

Or  treasure  petals  mingled  with  perfume, 
Loosing  them  in  the  days  when  April  grieves, — 

A  subtle  summer  in  the  rainy  room. 


THE  MESSAGE 


THE  MESSAGE 

Wind  of  the  gentle  summer  night, 

Dwell  in  the  lilac  tree, 
Sway  the  blossoms  clustered  light, 

Then  blow  over  to  me. 

Wind,  you  are  sometimes  strong  and  great, 

You  frighten  the  ships  at  sea, 
Now  come  floating  your  delicate  freight 

Out  of  the  lilac  tree. 

Wind,  you  must  waver  a  gossamer  sail 

To  ferry  a  scent  so  light, 
Will  you  carry  my  love  a  message  as  frail 

Through  the  hawk-haunted  night  ? 

For  my  heart  is  sometimes  strange  and  wild, 

Bitter  and  bold  and  free, 
I  scare  the  beautiful  timid  child, 

As  you  frighten  the  ships  at  sea ; 


THE  MESSAGE  < 

But  now  when  the  hawks  are  piercing  the  air, 

With  the  golden  stars  above, 
The  only  thing  my  heart  can  bear 

Is  a  lilac  message  of  love. 

Gentle  wind,  will  you  carry  this 

Up  to  her  window  white  ; 
Give  her  a  gentle  tender  kiss, 

Bid  her  good-night — good-night. 


10  THE  SILENCE  OF  LOVE 


THE  SILENCE  OF  LOVE 

My  heart  would  need  the  earth, 
My  voice  would  need  the  sea. 

To  only  tell  the  one  half 
How  dear  you  are  to  me. 

And  if  I  had  the  winds, 

The  stars  and  the  planets  as  well, 
I  might  tell  the  other  half, 

Or  perhaps  I  would  try  to  tell. 


AN  IMPROMPTU  11 


AN  IMPROMPTU 

The  stars  are  in  the  ebon  sky, 

Burning,  gold,  alone  ; 
The  wind  roars  over  the  rolling  earth, 

Like  water  over  a  stone. 

We  are  like  things  in  a  river-bed 

The  stream  runs  over, 
They  see  the  iris,  and  arrowhead, 

Anemone,  and  clover. 

But  they  cannot  touch  the  shining  things, 

For  all  their  strife, 
For  the  strong  river  swirls  and  swings — 

And  that  is  much  like  life. 

For  life  is  a  plunging  and  heavy  stream, 
And  there 's  something  bright  above  ; 

But  the  ills  of  breathing  only  seem, 
When  we  know  the  light  is  love. 


12  AN  IMPROMPTU 

The  stars  are  in  the  ebon  sky, 

Burning,  gold,  alone ; 
The  wind  roars  over  the  rolling  earth, 

Like  water  over  a  stone. 


FROM  THE  FARM  ON  THE  HILL  11 


FROM  THE  FARM  ON  THE  HILL 

TO  A.  P.  S. 

The  night  wind  moves  the  gloom 
In  the  shadowy  basswood ; 
Mysteriously  the  leaves  sway  and  sing ; 
So  slow,  so  tender  is  the  wind, 
The  slender  elm-tree 
Is  hardly  stirred. 

The  sky  is  veiled  with  clouds, 
With  diaphanous  tissue ; 
Through  their  dissolving  films 
The  stars  shine, 
But  how  infinitely  removed  ; 
How  inaccessible ! 

In  the  distant  city 
Under  the  obscure  towers 
The  lights  of  watehers  gleam ; 


14  FROM  THE  FARM  ON  THE  HILL 

From  the  dim  fields 
At  intervals  in  the  silence 
A  cuckoo  utters 
A  distorted  cry ; 
Through  the  low  woods, 
Haunted  with  vain  melancholy, 
A  whip-poor-will  wanders, 
Forcing  his  monotonous  song. 

All  the  ancient  desire 

Of  the  human  spirit 

Has  returned  upon  me  in  this  hour, 

All  the  wild  longing 

That  cannot  be  satisfied. 

Break,  O  anguish  of  nature, 

Into  some  glorious  sound  ! 

Let  me  touch  the  next  circle  of  being, 

For  I  have  compassed  this  life. 


AT  SCARBORO'  BEACH  15 


AT  SCARBORO'  BEACH 

The  wave  is  over  the  foaming  reef 

Leaping  alive  in  the  sun, 
Seaward  the  opal  sails  are  blown 

Vanishing  one  by  one. 

'Tis  leagues  around  the  blue  sea  curve 

To  the  sunny  coast  of  Spain, 
And  the  ships  that  sail  so  deftly  out 

May  never  come  home  again. 

A  mist  is  wreathed  round  Richmond  point, 
There 's  a  shadow  on  the  land, 

But  the  sea  is  in  the  splendid  sun, 
Plunging  so  careless  and  grand. 

The  sandpipers  trip  on  the  glassy  beach, 

Ready  to  mount  and  fly  ; 
Whenever  a  ripple  reaches  their  feet 

They  rise  with  a  timorous  cry. 


16  AT  SCARBORO'  BEACH 

Take  care,  they  pipe,  take  care,  take  care, 
For  this  is  the  treacherous  main, 

And  though  you  may  sail  so  deftly  out, 
You  may  never  come  home  again. 


THE  FIFTEENTH  OF  APRIL  17 


THE  FIFTEENTH  OF  APRIL 

TO  A.   L. 

Pallid  saffron  glows  the  broken  stubble, 
Brimmed  with  silver  lie  the  ruts. 
Purple  the  ploughed  hill  ; 
Down  a  sluice  with  break  and  bubble 

Hollow  falls  the  rill ; 
Falls  and  spreads  and  searches, 

Where,  beyond  the  wood, 
Starts  a  group  of  silver  birches, 
Bursting  into  bud. 

Under  Venus  sings  the  vesper  sparrow, 
Down  a  path  of  rosy  gold 

Floats  the  slender  moon ; 
Ringing  from  the  rounded  barrow 

Rolls  the  robin's  tune  ; 

B 


18  THE  FIFTEENTH  OF  APRIL 

Lighter  than  the  robin ;  hark  ! 

Quivering  silver-strong 
From  the  field  a  hidden  shore-lark 

Shakes  his  sparkling  song. 

Now  the  dewy  sounds  begin  to  dwindle, 
Dimmer  grow  the  burnished  rills, 
Breezes  creep  and  halt, 
Soon  the  guardian  night  shall  kindle 

In  the  violet  vault, 
All  the  twinkling  tapers 

Touched  with  steady  gold, 
Burning  through  the  lawny  vapours 
Where  they  float  and  fold. 


IN  AN  OLD  QUARRY  19 


IN  AN  OLD  QUARRY 


NOVEMBER 


Above  the  lifeless  pools  the  mist  films  swim, 
On  the  lowlands  where  sedges  chaff  and  nod  ; 
The  withered  fringes  of  the  golden-rod 
Hang  frayed  and  formless  at  the  quarry's  rim. 
Filled  with  the  wine  of  sunset  to  the  brim, 
These  limestone  pits  are  cups  for  the  night  god, 
Set  for  his  lips  when  he  strays  hither,  shod 
With  shadows,  all  the  stars  following  him. 
And  as  gloom  grows  and  deepens  like  a  psalm, 
This  broken  field  which  summer  has  passed  by 
Has  caught  the  ultimate  lethean  calm, 
The  fabulous  quiet  of  far  Thessaly, 
And  though  the  land  has  lost  the  bloom  and  balm, 
Nature  is  all  content  in  liberty. 


20  TO  WINTER 


TO  WINTER 

Come,  O  thou  conqueror  of  the  flying  year  ; 
Come  from  thy  fastness  of  the  Arctic  suns  ; 
Mass  on  the  purple  waste  and  wide  frontier 
Thy  wanish  hosts  and  silver  clarions. 

Then  heap  this  sombre  shoulder  of  the  world 
With  shifting  bastions  ;  let  thy  storm  winds  blare ; 
Drift  wide  thy  pallid  gonfalon  unfurled  ; 
And  arm  with  daggers  all  the  desperate  air. 

These  are  but  raids  in  dreams,  and  friendly  brawls ; 

Thou  art  a  gentle  giant  that  half  sleeps, 

And  blusters  grandly  to  his  frozen  thralls, 

The  more  to  charm  them  with  the  wealth  he  keeps 

We  hardly  hear  thy  bluff  and  hearty  word, 
When  over  the  first  flower  sings  the  first  bird. 


TO  WINTER  21 


TO  WINTER 

Come,  O  thou  season  of  intense  repose  ; 
Come  with  thy  lidded  eyes  and  crystal  breath ; 
Come  gently  with  thy  soft  release  of  snows  ; 
And  bring  thy  few  short  months  of  tender  death. 

Build  a  huge  tomb  within  the  desert  frore, 
With  green  clear  chambers  in  the  icy  rift, 
Carve  the  sleep  rune  above  the  crystal  door, 
And  trench  a  legend  in  the  pallid  drift. 

Let  the  large  stars  about  the  horizon  lie, 
Watching  the  confines  of  the  world's  great  sleep  ; 
Spread  the  vast  province  of  the  purple  sky, 
With  thy  wan  curtains  dropped  from  deep  to  deep. 

Then  hush  the  stir  and  bid  the  movement  cease ; 
Pass  gently,  leave  the  tired  world  in  peace. 


22  THE  IDEAL 


THE  IDEAL 

Let  your  soul  grow  a  thing  apart, 
Untroubled  by  the  restless  day, 

Sublimed  by  some  unconscious  art, 
Controlled  by  some  divine  delay. 

For  life  is  greater  than  they  think, 
Who  fret  along  its  shallow  bars  : 

Swing  out  the  boom  to  float  or  sink 
And  front  the  ocean  and  the  stars. 


A  SUMMER  STORM  23 


A  SUMMER  STORM 

Last  night  a  storm  fell  on  the  world 
From  heights  of  drouth  and  heat. 

The  surly  clouds  for  weeks  were  furled, 
The  air  could  only  sway  and  beat, 

The  beetles  clattered  at  the  blind, 

The  hawks  fell  twanging  from  the  sky, 

The  west  unrolled  a  feathery  wind, 
And  the  night  fell  sullenly. 

The  storm  leaped  roaring  from  its  lair, 

Like  the  shadow  of  doom, 
The  poignard  lightning  searched  the  air, 

The  thunder  ripped  the  shattered  gloom, 

The  rain  came  down  with  a  roar  like  fire, 
Full-voiced  and  clamorous  and  deep, 

The  weaiy  world  had  its  heart's  desire, 
And  fell  asleep. 


24  A  SUMMER  STORM 

And  now  in  the  morning  early, 
The  clouds  are  sailing-  by 

Clearly,  oh  !  so  clearly, 
The  distant  mountains  lie. 

The  wind  is  very  mild  and  slow, 
The  clouds  obey  his  will, 

They  part  and  part  and  onward  go, 
Travelling  together  still. 

'Tis  very  sweet  to  be  alive, 
On  a  morning  that 's  so  fair, 

For  nothing  seems  to  stir  or  strive, 
In  the  unconscious  air. 

A  tawny  thrush  is  in  the  wood, 
Ringing  so  wild  and  free  ; 

Only  one  bird  has  a  blither  mood, 
The  white-throat  on  the  tree. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  25 


LIFE  AND  DEATH 

I  thought  of  death  beside  the  lonely  sea, 
That  went  beyond  the  limit  of  my  sight, 
Seeming  the  image  of  his  mastery, 
The  semblance  of  his  huge  and  gloomy  might. 

But  firm  beneath  the  sea  went  the  great  earth, 

With  sober  bulk  and  adamantine  hold, 

The  water  but  a  mantle  for  her  girth, 

That  played  about  her  splendour  fold  on  fold. 

And  life  seemed  like  this  dear  familiar  shore, 
That  stretched  from  the  wet  sands'  last  wavy  crease, 
Beneath  the  sea's  remote  and  sombre  roar, 
To  inland  stillness  and  the  wilds  of  peace. 

Death  seems  triumphant  only  here  and  there ; 
Life  is  the  sovereign  presence  everywhere. 


20  IN  THE  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 


IN  THE  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  FATHER 

This  is  the  acre  of  unfathomed  rest, 

These  stones,  with  weed  and  lichen  bound,  enclose 
No  active  grief,  no  uncompleted  woes, 
But  only  finished  work  and  harboured  quest, 

And  balm  for  ills  ; 
And  the  last  gold  that  smote  the  ashen  west 

Lies  garnered  here  between  the  harvest  hills. 

This  spot  has  never  known  the  heat  of  toil, 
Save  when  the  angel  with  the  mighty  spade 
Has  turned  the  sod  and  built  the  house  of  shade ; 
But  here  old  chance  is  guardian  of  the  soil  ; 

Green  leaf  and  grey, 
The  barrows  blossom  with  the  tangled  spoil, 

And  God's  own  weeds  are  fair  in  God's  own 
way. 


IN  THE  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD  27 

Sweet  flowers  may  gather  in  the  ferny  wood : 
Hepaticas,  the  morning  stars  of  spring ; 
The  bloodroots  with  their  milder  ministering, 
Like  planets  in  the  lonelier  solitude  ; 

And  that  white  throng, 
Which  shakes  the  dingles  with  a  starry  brood, 
And  tells  the  robin  his  forgotten  song. 

These  flowers  may  rise  amid  the  dewy  fern, 
They  may  not  root  within  this  antique  wall, 
The  dead  have  chosen  for  their  coronal, 
No  buds  that  flaunt  of  life  and  flare  and  burn ; 

They  have  agreed, 
To  choose  a  beauty  puritan  and  stern, 

The  universal  grass,  the  homely  weed. 

This  is  the  paradise  of  common  things, 

The  scourged  and  trampled  here  find  peace  to  grow, 
The  frost  to  furrow  and  the  wind  to  sow, 
The  mighty  sun  to  time  their  blossomings  ; 

And  now  they  keep 
A  crown  reflowering  on  the  tombs  of  kings, 

Who  earned  their  triumph  and  have  claimed 
their  sleep. 


28     IN  THE  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 

Yea,  each  is  here  a  prince  in  his  own  right, 
Who  dwelt  disguised  amid  the  multitude, 
And  when  his  time  was  come,  in  haughty  mood, 
Shook  off  his  motley  and  reclaimed  his  might ; 

His  sombre  throne 
In  the  vast  province  of  perpetual  night, 
He  holds  secure,  inviolate,  alone. 

The  poor  forgets  that  ever  he  was  poor, 
The  priest  has  lost  his  science  of  the  truth, 
The  maid  her  beauty,  and  the  youth  his  youth, 
The  statesman  has  forgot  his  subtle  lure, 

The  old  his  age, 
The  sick  his  suffering,  and  the  leech  his  cure, 
The  poet  his  perplexed  and  vacant  page. 

These  swains  that  tilled  the  uplands  in  the  sun 
Have  all  forgot  the  field's  familiar  face, 
And  lie  content  within  this  ancient  place, 
Whereto  when  hands  were  tired  their  thought  would 
run 
To  dream  of  rest, 
When  the  last  furrow  was  turned  down,  and  won 
The  last  harsh  harvest  from  the  earth's  patient 
breast. 


IN  THE  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD  29 

0  dwellers  in  the  valley  vast  and  fair, 

I  would  that  calling  from  your  tranquil  clime. 
You  make  a  truce  for  me  with  cruel  time ; 
For  I  am  weary  of  this  eager  care 
That  never  dies ; 

1  would  be  born  into  your  tranquil  air, 

Your  deserts  crowned  and  sovereign  silences. 


I  would,,  but  that  the  world  is  beautiful, 

And  I  am  more  in  love  with  the  sliding  years, 
They  have  not  brought  me  frantic  joy  or  tears, 
But  only  moderate  state  and  temperate  rule  ; 

Not  to  forget 
This  quiet  beauty,  not  to  be  Time's  fool, 
I  will  be  man  a  little  longer  yet. 

For  lo,  what  beauty  crowns  the  harvest  hills  ! — 
The  buckwheat  acres  gleam  like  silver  shields  ; 
The  oats  hang  tarnished  in  the  golden  fields ; 
Between  the  elms  the  yellow  wheat-land  fills  ; 

The  apples  drop 
Within  the  orchard,  where  the  red  tree  spills, 
The  fragrant  fruitage  over  branch  and  prop. 


30     IN  THE  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 

The  cows  go  lowing  through  the  lovely  vale ; 
The  clarion  peacock  warns  the  world  of  rain, 
Perched  on  the  barn  a  gaudy  weather-vane ; 
The  farm  lad  holloes  from  the  shifted  rail, 

Along  the  grove 
He  beats  a  measure  on  his  ringing  pail, 

And  sings  the  heart-song  of  his  early  love. 

There  is  a  honey  scent  along  the  air ; 

The  hermit  thrush  has  tuned  his  fleeting  note, 
Among  the  silver  birches  far  remote 
His  spirit  voice  appeareth  here  and  there, 

To  fail  and  fade, 
A  visionary  cadence  falling  fair, 

That  lifts  and  lingers  in  the  hollow  shade. 

And  now  a  spirit  in  the  east,  unseen, 
Raises  the  moon  above  her  misty  eyes, 
And  travels  up  the  veiled  and  starless  skies, 
Viewing  the  quietude  of  her  demesne ; 

Stainless  and  slow, 
I  watch  the  lustre  of  her  planet's  sheen, 

From  burnished  gold  to  liquid  silver  flow. 


IN  THE  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD  31 

And  now  I  leave  the  dead  with  you,  O  night ; 
You  wear  the  semblance  of  their  fathomless  state, 
For  you  we  long  when  the  day's  fire  is  great, 
And  when  stern  life  is  cruellest  in  his  might, 

Of  death  we  dream  : 
A  country  of  dim  plain  and  shadowy  height, 

Crowned  with  strange  stars  and  silences  supreme : 

Rest  here,  for  day  is  hot  to  follow  you, 

Rest  here  until  the  morning  star  has  come, 
Until  is  risen  aloft  dawn  s  rosy  dome, 
Based  deep  on  buried  crimson  into  blue, 

And  morn's  desire 
Has  made  the  fragile  cobweb  drenched  with  dew 
A  net  of  opals  veiled  with  dreamy  fire. 


32  SONG 


SONG 

I  have  done, 

Put  by  the  lute  ; 

Songs  and  singing  soon  are  over, 

Soon  as  airy  shades  that  hover 

Up  above  the  purple  clover — 

I  have  done,  put  by  the  lute. 

Once  I  sang  as  early  thrushes 

Sing  about  the  dewy  bushes, 

Now  I  'm  mute  ; 

I  am  like  a  weary  linnet, 

For  my  throat  has  no  song  in  it, 

I  have  had  my  singing  minute. 

I  have  done, 

Put  by  the  lute. 


THE  MAGIC  HOUSE  33 


THE  MAGIC  HOUSE 

In  her  chamber,  wheresoe'er 
Time  shall  build  the  walls  of  it, 

Melodies  shall  minister, 
Mellow  sounds  shall  flit 

Through  a  dusk  of  musk  and  myrrh. 

Lingering  in  the  spaces  vague, 
Like  the  breath  within  a  flute, 

Winds  shall  move  along  the  stair ; 
When  she  walketh  mute 

Music  meet  shall  greet  her  there. 

Time  shall  make  a  truce  with  Time, 

All  the  languid  dials  tell 
Irised  hours  of  gossamer, 

Eve  perpetual 
Shall  the  night  or  light  defer. 


34  THE  MAGIC  HOUSE 

From  her  casement  she  shall  see 
Down  a  valley  wild  and  dim, 

Swart  with  woods  of  pine  and  fir  ; 
Shall  the  sunsets  swim 

Red  with  untold  gold  to  her. 

From  her  terrace  she  shall  see 
Lines  of  birds  like  dusky  motes 

Falling  in  the  heated  glare  ; 
How  an  eagle  floats 

In  the  wan  unconscious  air. 

From  her  turret  she  shall  see 
Vision  of  a  cloudy  place, 

Like  a  group  of  opal  flowers 
On  the  verge  of  space, 

Or  a  town,  or  crown  of  towers. 

From  her  garden  she  shall  hear 
Fall  the  cones  between  the  pines  ; 

She  shall  seem  to  hear  the  sea, 
Or  behind  the  vines 

Some  small  noise,  a  voice  may  be. 


THE  MAGIC  HOUSE  35 

But  no  thing  shall  habit  there, 
There  no  human  foot  shall  fall, 

No  sweet  word  the  silence  stir, 
Naught  her  name  shall  call, 

Nothing  come  to  comfort  her. 

But  about  the  middle  night, 
When  the  dusk  is  loathed  most, 

Ancient  thoughts  and  words  long  said, 
Like  an  alien  host, 

There  shall  come  unsummoned. 

With  her  forehead  on  her  wrist 

She  shall  lean  against  the  wall 
And  see  all  the  dream  go  by ; 

In  the  interval 
Time  shall  turn  Eternity. 

But  the  agony  shall  pass — 

Fainting  with  unuttered  prayer, 
She  shall  see  the  world's  outlines 

And  the  weary  glare 
And  the  bare  unvaried  pines. 


,36  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  DREAMS 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  DREAMS 

i 
The  lady  Lillian  knelt  upon  the  sward, 

Between  the  arbour  and  the  almond  leaves ; 

Beyond,  the  barley  gathered  into  sheaves  ; 
A  blade  of  gladiolus,  like  a  sword, 
Flamed  fierce  against  the  gold  ;  and  down  toward 

The  limpid  west,  a  pallid  poplar  wove 

A  spell  of  shadow  ;  through  the  meadow  drove 
A  deep  unbroken  brook  without  a  ford. 

A  fountain  flung  and  poised  a  golden  ball ; 

On  the  soft  grass  a  frosted  serpent  lay, 
With  oval  spots  of  opal  over  all ; 

Upon  the  basin's  edge  within  the  spray, 
Lulled  by  some  craft  of  laughter  in  the  fall, 

An  ancient  crow  dreamed  hours  and  hours  away. 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  DREAMS  37 

ii 
The  lady  watched  the  serpent  and  the  crow 

For  days,  then  came  a  little  naked  lad, 

And  smote  the  serpent  with  a  spear  he  had ; 
Then  stooped  and  caught  the  coil,  and  straining  slow, 
Took  the  lithe  weight  upon  his  shoulder,  so, 

And  tugged,  but  could  not  move  the  ponderous 
thing, 

Then  flushing  red  with  rage,  his  spear  did  fling, 
And  cut  the  gladiolus  at  one  blow. 

Then  back  he  swung  his  flaming  weapon  high, 
And  smote  the  snake  and  called  a  magic  name  ; 

Then  the  whole  garden  vanished  utterly, 

And  through  a  mist  the  lightning  went  and  came, 

And  flooded  all  the  caverns  of  the  sky, 
A  rosy  gulf  of  unimprisoned  flame. 


38  THE  RIVER  TOWN 


THE  RIVER  TOWN 

There  's  a  town  where  shadows  run 
In  the  sparkle  and  the  blue, 

By  the  river  and  the  sun 

Swept  and  flooded  thro'  and  thro'. 

There  the  sailor  trolls  a  song, 

There  the  sea-gull  dips  her  wing, 

There  the  wind  is  clear  and  strong, 
There  the  waters  break  and  swing. 

But  at  night  with  leaden  sweep 
Come  the  clouds  along  the  flood, 

Lifting  in  the  vaulted  deep 
Pinions  of  a  giant  brood. 

Charging  by  the  slip,  the  whole 
River  rushes  black  and  sheer, 

There  the  great  fish  heave  and  roll 
In  the  gloom  beyond  the  pier. 


THE  RIVER  TOWN  39 

All  the  lonely  hollow  town 
Towers  above  the  windy  quay, 

And  the  ancient  tide  goes  down 
With  its  secret  to  the  sea. 


40  OFF  THE  ISLE  AUX  COUDRES 


OFF  THE  ISLE  AUX  COUDRES 

The  moon,  Capella,  and  the  Pleiades 
Silver  the  river's  grey  uncertain  floor ; 
Only  a  heron  haunts  the  grassy  shore  ; 

A  fox  barks  sharply  in  the  cedar  trees  ; 

Then  comes  the  lift  and  lull  of  plangent  seas, 
Swaying  the  light  marish  grasses  more  and  more 
Until  they  float,  and  the  slow  tide  brims  o'er, 

And  then  a  rivulet  runs  along  the  breeze. 

O  night !  thou  art  so  beautiful,  so  strange,  so  sad ; 

I  feel  that  sense  of  scope  and  ancientness, 
Of  all  the  mighty  empires  thou  hast  had 

Dreaming  of  power  beneath  thy  palace  dome, 
Of  how  thou  art  untouched  by  their  distress, 

Supreme  above  this  dreaming  land,  my  home. 


AT  LES  EBOULEMENTS  41 


AT  LES  EBOULEMENTS 

TO  M.   E.   S. 

The  bay  is  set  with  ashy  sails, 

With  purple  shades  that  fade  and  flee, 

And  curling  by  in  silver  wales, 
The  tide  is  straining  from  the  sea. 

The  grassy  points  are  slowly  drowned, 

The  water  laps  and  over-rolls, 
The  wicker  peche  ;  with  shallow  sound 

A  light  wave  labours  on  the  shoals. 

The  crows  are  feeding  in  the  foam, 
They  rise  in  crowds  tumultuously, 

'  Come  home/  they  cry,  '  come  home,  come 
home, 
And  leave  the  marshes  to  the  sea.' 


42  ABOVE  ST.  IR£n£e 


ABOVE  ST.  IRENEE 

I  rested  on  the  breezy  height, 
In  cooler  shade  and  clearer  air, 
Beneath  a  maple  tree ; 

Below,  the  mighty  river  took 
Its  sparkling  shade  and  sheeny  light 
Down  to  the  sombre  sea, 

And  clustered  by  the  leaping  brook, 
The  roofs  of  white  St.  Irenee. 

The  sapphire  hills  on  either  hand 
Broke  down  upon  the  silver  tide, 
The  river  ran  in  streams, 

In  streams  of  mingled  azure-grey, 
With  here  a  broken  purple  band, 
And  whorls  of  drab,  and  beams 

Of  shattered  silver  light  astray, 
Where  far  away  the  south  shore  gleams. 


ABOVE  ST.  IRENEE  43 

I  walked  a  mile  along  the  height 
Between  the  flowers  upon  the  road, 
Asters  and  golden-rod ; 

And  in  the  gardens  pinks  and  stocks, 
And  gaudy  poppies  shaking  light, 

And  daisies  blooming  near  the  sod, 

And  lowly  pansies  set  in  flocks, 
With  purple  monkshood  overawed. 


And  there  I  saw  a  little  child 
Between  the  tossing  golden-rod, 
Coming  along  to  me ; 

She  was  a  tender  little  thing, 
So  fragile-sweet,  so  Mary-mild, 
I  thought  her  name  Marie ; 

No  other  name  methought  could  cling 
To  any  one  so  fair  as  she. 


And  when  we  came  at  last  to  meet, 
I  spoke  a  simple  word  to  her, 
'  Where  are  you  going,  Marie  ? ' 

She  answered  and  she  did  not  smile, 


44  ABOVE  ST.  IRl^N^E 

But  oh  !  her  voice, — her  voice  so  sweet, 
'  Down  to  St.  Irenee/ 

And  so  passed  on  to  walk  her  mile, 
And  left  the  lonely  road  to  me. 

And  as  the  night  came  on  apace, 
With  stars  above  the  darkened  hills, 
I  heard  perpetually, 

Chiming  along  the  falling  hours, 
On  the  deep  dusk  that  mellow  phrase, 
1  Down  to  St.  Irenee  : ' 

It  seemed  as  if  the  stars  and  flowers 
Should  all  go  there  with  me. 


WRITTEN  IN  A.  LAMPMAN'S  POEMS        45 


WRITTEN  IN  A  COPY  OF  ARCHIBALD 
LAMPMAN'S  POEMS 

When  April  moved  in  maiden  guise 
Hiding  her  sweet  inviolate  eyes. 
You  saw  about  the  hazel  roots, 
Beyond  the  ruddy  osier  shoots, 
The  violets  rise. 

At  even,  in  the  lower  woods, 
Amid  the  cedarn  solitudes, 
You  heard  afar  amid  the  hush 
The  argent  utterance  of  the  thrush 
In  slower  interludes. 

When  bees  above  in  arboured  rooms 
Were  busy  in  the  basswood  blooms, 
You  drowsed  within  the  sombre  drone, 
Dreaming,  and  deemed  yourself  alone, 
Harboured  in  glooms. 


46  WRITTEN  IN  A  COPY  OF 

The  singing  of  the  sentient  bees 
Brought  wisdom  for  perplexities  ; 
They  taught  you  all  the  murmured  lore 
Of  seas  around  an  ancient  shore, 
Of  streams  and  trees. 


You  saw  the  web  of  life  unrolled, 
Fold  and  inweave,  weave  and  unfold, 
Crimson  and  azure  strand  on  strand, 
From  some  great  gulf  in  vision-land, 
Deep  and  untold. 

And  as  the  soft  clouds  opal-gray 
Against  the  confines  of  the  day 
Seem  lighter  for  the  depth  of  skies, 
So,  lighter  for  your  saddened  eyes, 
Your  fair  thoughts  stray. 

I  pluck  a  bunch  before  the  spring, 
Of  field-flowers  reflowering, 
Upon  a  fell  that  fancy  weaves, 
A  memory  lingers  in  their  leaves 
Of  songs  you  sing. 


ARCHIBALD  LAMPMANS  POEMS  47 

You  must  have  rested  here  sometime, 
When  thought  was  high  and  words  in  chime, 
Your  seed  thoughts  left  for  sun  and  showers 
Have  blossomed  into  pleasant  flowers, 
Instead  of  rhyme. 

And  so  I  bring  them  back  to  you, 
These  pensile  buds  of  tender  hue, 
Of  crimson,  pink  and  purple  sheen, 
Of  yellow  deep,  and  delicate  green, 
Of  white  and  blue. 


48  OFF  RIVIERE  DU  LOUP 


OFF  RIVlfeRE  DU  LOUP 

O  ship  incoming  from  the  sea 

With  all  your  cloudy  tower  of  sail, 

Dashing  the  water  to  the  lee, 

And  leaning  grandly  to  the  gale ; 

The  sunset  pageant  in  the  west 

Has  filled  your  canvas  curves  with  rose, 

And  jewelled  every  toppling  crest 
That  crashes  into  silver  snows  ! 

You  know  the  joy  of  coming  home, 

After  long  leagues  to  France  or  Spain ; 

You  feel  the  clear  Canadian  foam 
And  the  gulf  water  heave  again. 

Between  these  sombre  purple  hills 
That  cool  the  sunset's  molten  bars, 

You  will  go  on  as  the  wind  wills, 
Beneath  the  river's  roof  of  stars. 


OFF  RIVIERE  DU  LOUP  49 

You  will  toss  onward  toward  the  lights 
That  spangle  over  the  lonely  pier, 

By  hamlets  glimmering  on  the  heights, 
By  level  islands  black  and  clear. 

You  will  go  on  beyond  the  tide,, 

Through  brimming  plains  of  olive  sedge, 

Through  paler  shallows  light  and  wide, 
The  rapids  piled  along  the  ledge. 

At  evening  off  some  reedy  bay 

1  ou  will  swing  slowly  on  your  chain, 

And  catch  the  scent  of  dewy  hay, 
Soft  blowing  from  the  pleasant  plain. 


u 


50  AT  THE  CEDARS 


AT  THE  CEDARS 

TO  W.  W.  C. 

You  had  two  girls — Baptiste — 
One  is  Virginie — 
Hold  hard — Baptiste  ! 
Listen  to  me. 

The  whole  drive  was  jammed 
In  that  bend  at  the  Cedars, 
The  rapids  were  dammed 
With  the  logs  tight  rammed 
And  crammed  ;  you  might  know 
The  Devil  had  clinched  them  below. 

We  worked  three  days — not  a  budge, 

'  She 's  as  tight  as  a  wedge,  on  the  ledge,' 

Says  our  foreman  ; 

c  Mon  Dieu  !  boys,  look  here, 

We  must  get  this  thing  clear/ 


AT  THE  CEDARS  51 

He  cursed  at  the  men 
And  we  went  for  it  then  ; 
With  our  cant-dogs  arow, 
We  just  gave  he-yo-ho  ; 
When  she  gave  a  big  shove 
From  above. 

The  gang  yelled  and  tore 
For  the  shore, 
The  logs  gave  a  grind 
Like  a  wolf's  jaws  behind, 
And  as  quick  as  a  flash, 
With  a  shove  and  a  crash, 
They  were  down  in  a  mash, 
But  I  and  ten  more, 
All  but  Isaac  Dufour, 
Were  ashore. 

He  leaped  on  a  log  in  the  front  of  the 

rush, 
And  shot  out  from  the  bind 
While  the  jam  roared  behind ; 
As  he  floated  along 
He  balanced  his  pole 


52  AT  THE  CEDARS 

And  tossed  us  a  song. 

But  just  as  we  cheered, 

Up  darted  a  log  from  the  bottom, 

Leaped  thirty  feet  square  and  fair, 

And  came  down  on  his  own. 


He  went  up  like  a  block 

With  the  shock, 

And  when  he  was  there 

In  the  air, 

Kissed  his  hand 

To  the  land  ; 

When  he  dropped 

My  heart  stopped, 

For  the  first  logs  had  caught  him 

And  crushed  him ; 

When  he  rose  in  his  place 

There  was  blood  on  his  face. 


There  were  some  girls,  Baptiste, 
Picking  berries  on  the  hillside, 
Where  the  river  curls,  Baptiste, 
You  know — on  the  still  side 


AT  THE  CEDARS  53 

One  was  down  by  the  water, 
She  saw  Isaac 
Fall  back. 

She  did  not  scream,  Baptiste, 
She  launched  her  canoe  ; 
It  did  seem,  Baptiste, 
That  she  wanted  to  die  too, 
For  before  you  could  think 
The  birch  cracked  like  a  shell 
In  that  rush  of  hell, 
And  I  saw  them  both  sink — 

Baptiste  ! — 

He  had  two  girls, 

One  is  Virginie, 

What  God  calls  the  other 

Is  not  known  to  me. 


54  THE  END  OF  THE  DAY 


THE  END  OF  THE  DAY 

I  hear  the  bells  at  eventide 

Peal  slowly  one  by  one. 
Near  and  far  off  they  break  and  glide, 

Across  the  stream  float  faintly  beautiful 

The  antiphonal  bells  of  Hull  ; 
The  day  is  done,  done,  done, 

The  day  is  done. 

The  dew  has  gathered  in  the  flowers, 

Like  tears  from  some  unconscious  deep : 
The  swallows  whirl  around  the  towers, 

The  light  runs  out  beyond  the  long  cloud  bars, 

And  leaves  the  single  stars : 
'Tis  time  for  sleep,  sleep,  sleep, 

'Tis  time  for  sleep. 


THE  END  OF  THE  DAY  55 

The  hermit  thrush  begins  again, — 

Timorous  eremite — 
That  song  of  risen  tears  and  pain, 

As  if  the  one  he  loved  was  far  away : 

'  Alas !  another  day — ' 
1  And  now  Good  Night,  Good  Night,' 

<  Good  Night.' 


56  THE  REED-PLAYER 


THE  REED-PLAYER 


TO  B.  C. 


By  a  dim  shore  where  water  darkening 
Took  the  last  light  of  spring, 

I  went  beyond  the  tumult,  hearkening 
For  some  diviner  thins:. 


\-v 


Where  the  bats  flew  from  the  black  elms  like  leaves, 

Over  the  ebon  pool 
Brooded  the  bittern's  cry,  as  one  that  grieves 

Lands  ancient,  bountiful. 

I  saw  the  fireflies  shine  below  the  wood, 

Above  the  shallows  dank, 
As  Uriel  from  some  great  altitude, 

The  planets  rank  on  rank. 

And  now  unseen  along  the  shrouded  mead 

One  went  under  the  hill ; 
He  blew  a  cadence  on  his  mellow  reed, 

That  trembled  and  was  still. 


THE  REED-PLAYER  57 

It  seemed  as  if  a  line  of  amber  fire 

Had  shot  the  gathered  dusk, 
As  if  had  blown  a  wind  from  ancient  Tyre 

Laden  with  myrrh  and  musk. 

He  gave  his  luring  note  amid  the  fern  j 

Its  enigmatic  fall 
Haunted  the  hollow  dusk  with  golden  turn 

And  argent  interval. 

I  could  not  know  the  message  that  he  bore, 

The  springs  of  life  from  me 
Hidden;  his  incommunicable  lore 

As  much  a  mystery. 

And  as  I  followed  far  the  magic  player 

He  passed  the  maple  wood, 
And  when  I  passed  the  stars  had  risen  there, 

And  there  was  solitude. 


58  A  FLOCK  OF  SHEEP 


A  FLOCK  OF  SHEEP 


TO  C.   G.   D.    R. 


Over  the  field  the  bright  air  clings  and  tingles, 
In  the  gold  sunset  while  the  red  wind  swoops  ; 

Upon  the  nibbled  knolls  and  from  the  dingles, 
The  sheep  are  gathering  in  frightened  groups. 

From  the  wide  field  the  laggards  bleat  and  follow, 
A  drover  hurls  his  cry  and  hooting  laugh ; 

And  one  young  swain,  too  glad  to  whoop  or  hollo, 
Is  singing  wildly  as  he  whirls  his  staff. 

Now  crowding  into  little  groups  and  eddies 
They  swirl  about  and  charge  and  try  to  pass ; 

The  sheep-dog  yelps  and  heads  them  off  and  steadies 
And  rounds  and  moulds  them  in  a  seething  mass. 

They  stand  a  moment  with  their  heads  uplifted 
Till  the  wise  dog  barks  loudly  on  the  flank, 

They  all  at  once  roll  over  and  are  drifted 
Down  the  small  hill  toward  the  river  bank. 


A  FLOCK  OF  SHEEP  59 

Covered  with  rusty  marks  and  purple  blotches 
Around  the  fallen  bars  they  flow  and  leap ; 

The  wary  dog  stands  by  and  keenly  watches 
As  if  he  knew  the  name  of  every  sheep. 

Now  down  the  road  the  nimble  sound  decreases, 
The  drovers  cry,  the  dog  delays  and  whines, 

And  now  with  twinkling  feet  and  glimmering  fleeces 
They  round  and  vanish  past  the  dusky  pines. 

The  drove  is  gone,  the  ruddy  wind  grows  colder, 
The  singing  youth  puts  up  the  heavy  bars, 

Beyond  the  pines  he  sees  the  crimson  smoulder, 
And  catches  in  his  eyes  the  early  stars. 


60  A  PORTRAIT 


A  PORTRAIT 

All  her  hair  is  softly  set, 
Like  a  misty  coronet, 
Massing  darkly  on  her  brow, 
Like  the  pines  above  the  snow ; 
And  her  eyebrows  lightly  drawn, 
Slender  clouds  above  the  dawn, 
Or  like  ferns  above  her  eyes, 
Ferns  and  pools  in  Paradise. 

Her  sweet  mouth  is  like  a  flower, 
Like  a  poppy  full  of  power, 
Shaken  light  and  crimson  stain, 
Pressed  together  by  the  rain, 
Glowing  liquid  in  the  sun, 
When  the  rain  is  done. 


A  PORTRAIT  61 


When  she  moves,  her  motionings 
Seem  to  shadow  hidden  wings  ; 
So  the  cuckoo  going  to  light 
Takes  a  little  further  flight, 
Fluttering  onward,  poised  there, 
Half  in  grass  and  half  in  air. 


When  she  speaks,  her  girlish  voice 
Makes  a  very  pleasant  noise, 
Like  a  brook  that  hums  along 
Under  leaves  an  undersong  : 
When  she  sings,  her  voice  is  clear. 
Like  the  waters  swerving  sheer, 
In  the  sunlight  magical, 
Down  a  ringing  fall. 


Here  her  spirit  came  to  dwell 

From  the  passionate  Israfel ; 

One  of  those  great  songs  of  his 

Rounded  to  a  soul  like  this  ; 

And  when  she  seems  so  strange  at  even, 

He  must  be  singing  in  the  heaven  ; 


62  A  PORTRAIT 

When  she  wears  that  charmed  smile. 
Listening,  listening  all  the  while, 
She  is  stirred  with  kindred  things, 
Starry  fire  and  sweeping  wings, 
And  the  seraph's  sobbing  strings. 


AT  THE  LATTICE  63 


AT  THE  LATTICE 

Good-night,  Marie,  I  kiss  thine  eyes, 

A  tender  touch  on  either  lid ; 
They  cover,  as  a  cloud,  the  skies 

Where  like  a  star  your  soul  lies  hid. 

My  love  is  like  a  fire  that  flows, 

This  touch  will  leave  a  tiny  scar, 
I  '11  claim  you  by  it  for  my  rose, 

My  rose,  my  own,  where'er  you  are. 

And  when  you  bind  your  hair,  and  when 

You  lie  within  your  silken  nest, 
This  kiss  will  visit  you  again, 

You  will  not  rest,  my  love,  you  will  not  rest. 


CA  THE  FIRST  SNOW 


THE   FIRST  SNOW 


The  field  pools  gathered  into  frosted  lace ; 
An  icy  glitter  lined  the  iron  ruts, 
And  bound  the  circle  of  the  musk-rat  huts ; 

A  junco  flashed  about  a  sunny  space 

Where  rose  stems  made  a  golden  amber  grace ; 
Between  the  dusky  alders'  woven  ranks, 
A  stream  thought  yet  about  his  summer  banks, 

And  made  an  August  music  in  the  place. 

Along  the  horizon's  faded  shrunken  lines, 
Veiling  the  gloomy  borders  of  the  night, 

Huns'  the  great  snow  clouds  washed  with 
pallid  gold ; 
And  stealing  from  his  covert  in  the  pines, 
The  wind,  encouraged  to  a  stinging  flight, 
Dropped  in  the  hollow  conquered  by  the  cold. 


THE  FIRST  SNOW  65 


ii 


Then  a  light  cloud  rose  up  for  hardihood, 

Trailing  a  veil  of  snow  that  whirled  and  broke, 
Blown  softly  like  a  shroud  of  steam  or  smoke, 

Sallied  across  a  knoll  where  maples  stood, 

Charged  over  broken  country  for  a  rood, 

Then  seeing  the  night  withdrew  his  force  and 

fled, 
Leaving  the    ground   with    snow-flakes  thinly 
spread, 

And  traces  of  the  skirmish  in  the  wood. 

The  stars  sprang  out  and  flashed  serenely  near, 
The    solid  frost    came    down   with   might  and 
main, 
It  set  the  rivers  under  bolt  and  bar ; 
Bang !    went  the  starting  eaves  beneath  the 
strain, 
And  e'er  Orion  saw  the  morning-star 
The  winter  was  the  master  of  the  vear. 


GG  IN  NOVEMBER 


IN  NOVEMBER 

TO  J.  A.   R. 

The  ruddy  sunset  lies 
Banked  along  the  west ; 

In  flocks  with  sweep  and  rise 
The  birds  are  going  to  rest. 

The  air  clings  and  cools, 
And  the  reeds  look  cold, 

Standing  above  the  pools, 
Like  rods  of  beaten  gold. 

The  flaunting  golden-rod 
Has  lost  her  worldly  mood, 

She 's  given  herself  to  God, 
And  taken  a  nun's  hood. 

The  wild  and  wanton  horde, 
That  kept  the  summer  revel, 

Have  taken  the  serge  and  cord, 
And  given  the  slip  to  the  Devil. 


IN  NOVEMBER  67 

The  winter's  loose  somewhere, 

Gathering  snow  for  a  fight  ; 
From  the  feel  of  the  air 

I  think  it  will  freeze  to-night. 


08  THE  SLEEPER 


THE  SLEEPER 

Touched  with  some  divine  repose, 
Isabelle  has  fallen  asleep, 

Like  the  perfume  from  the  rose 
In  and  out  her  breathings  creep. 

Dewy  are  her  rosy  palms, 
In  her  cheek  the  flushes  flit, 

And  a  dream  her  spirit  calms 
With  the  pleasant  thought  of  it. 

All  the  rounded  heavens  show 
Like  the  concave  of  a  pearl, 

Stars  amid  the  opal  glow 
Little  fronds  of  flame  unfurl. 

Then  upfloats  a  planet  strange, 
Not  the  moon  that  mortals  know, 

With  a  magic  mountain  range, 
Cones  and  craters  white  as  snow  ; 


THE  SLEEPER  69 

Something  different  yet  the  same — 

Rain  by  rainbows  glorified, 
Roses  lit  with  lambent  flame — 

Tis  the  maid  moon's  other  side. 

When  the  sleeper  floats  from  sleep, 

She  will  smile  the  vision  o'er, 
See  the  veined  valleys  deep, 

No  one  ever  saw  before. 

Yet  the  moon  is  not  betrayed, 

(Ah  !  the  subtle  Isabelle  !) 
She  's  a  maiden,  and  a  maid 

Maiden  secrets  will  not  tell. 


70  A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE 


A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE 

The  world  is  heated  seven  times, 
The  sky  is  close  above  the  lawn, 
An  oven  when  the  coals  are  drawn. 

There  is  no  stir  of  air  at  all, 

Only  at  times  an  inward  breeze 
Turns  back  a  pale  leaf  in  the  trees. 

Here  the  syringa's  rich  perfume 
Covers  the  tulip's  red  retreat, 
A  burning  pool  of  scent  and  heat. 

The  pallid  lightning  wavers  dim 

Between  the  trees,  then  deep  and  dense 
The  darkness  settles  more  intense. 

A  hawk  lies  panting  in  the  grass, 
Or  plunges  upward  through  the  air, 
The  lightning  shows  him  whirling  there. 


A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE  71 

A  bird  calls  madly  from  the  eaves, 
Then  stops,  the  silence  all  at  once 
Disturbed,  falls  dead  again  and  stuns. 

A  redder  lightning  flits  about, 

But  in  the  north  a  storm  is  rolled 
That  splits  the  gloom  with  vivid  gold  ; 

Dead  silence,  then  a  little  sound, 

The  distance  chokes  the  thunder  down, 
It  shudders  faintly  in  the  town. 

A  fountain  plashing  in  the  dark 

Keeps  up  a  mimic  dropping  strain  ; 
Ah  !  God,  if  it  were  really  rain  ! 


72  MEMORY 


MEMORY 

I  see  a  schooner  in  the  bay 

Cutting  the  current  into  foam ; 

One  day  she  flies  and  then  one  day 
Comes  like  a  swallow  veering  home. 

I  hear  a  water  miles  away 

Go  sobbing  down  the  wooded  glen  ; 
One  day  it  lulls  and  then  one  day 

Comes  sobbing  on  the  wind  again. 

Remembrance  goes  but  will  not  stay ; 

That  cry  of  unpermitted  pain 
One  day  departs  and  then  one  day 

Comes  sobbing  to  my  heart  again. 


YOUTH  AND  TIME  73 


YOUTH  AND  TIME 

Move  not  so  lightly,  Time,  away, 

Grant  us  a  breathing-space  of  tender  ruth  ; 

Deal  not  so  harshly  with  the  flying  day, 

Leave  us  the  charm  of  spring,  the  touch  of  youth. 

Leave  us  the  lilacs  wet  with  dew, 

Leave  us  the  balsams  odorous  with  rain, 

Leave  us  of  frail  hepaticas  a  few, 

Let  the  red  osier  sprout  for  us  again. 

Leave  us  the  hazel  thickets  set 

Along  the  hills,  leave  us  a  month  that  yields 
The  fragile  bloodroot  and  the  violet, 

Leave  us  the  sorrage  shimmering  on  the  fields. 

YTou  offer  us  largess  of  power, 

You  offer  fame,  we  ask  not  these  in  sooth, 
These  comfort  age  upon  his  failing  hour, 

But  oh,  the  charm  of  spring,  the  touch  of  youth  ! 


74  A  MEMORY  OF  THE  'INFERNO' 


A  MEMORY  OF  THE  <  INFERNO' 

An  hour  before  the  dawn  I  dreamed  of  you ; 
Your  spirit  made  a  smile  upon  your  face, 
As  fleeting  as  the  visionary  grace 
That  music  lends  to  words ;  and  when  it  flew, 
I  thought  of  how  the  maid  Francesca  grew, 
So  lovely  at  Ravenna,  until  Time 
Ripened  the  fruit  of  her  immortal  crime. 
As  pure  as  light  my  vision  took  this  hue 
To  paint  our  sorrow  :  so  your  lips  made  moan  ; 
'  Upon  that  day  we  read  no  more  therein ' : 
I  wept,  such  tears  Paolo  might  have  known ; 
And  all  the  love,  the  immemorial  pain, 
Swept  down  upon  me  as  I  felt  begin, 
That  furious  circle  rage  and  reel  again. 


LA  BELLE  FERONIERE  75 


LA  BELLE  FERONIERE 

I  never  trod  where  Leonardo  was, 

Then  why  art  thou  within  this  house  of  dreams, 

Strange  Lady  ?    From  thy  face  a  memory  streams, 
Of  things,  forgotten  now,  that  came  to  pass  ; 
The  flower  of  Milan  floated  in  thy  glass  : 

Thy  dreaming  smile  ;  thy  subtle  loveliness  ! 

Ah  !  laughter  airier  far  than  ours,  I  guess, 
Lighted  thy  brow,  fleeter  than  fire  in  grass. 

Yet,  there  is  something  fateful  in  thy  face  : 

Say,  when  the  master  caught  it,  didst  thou  know, 

Almost  thy  name  would  perish  with  thy  grace, 
Thine  artifices  melt  away  like  snow, 

And  all  the  power  within  this  painted  space, 
Be  his  alone  to  hold  and  haunt  us  so  ? 


76  A  NOVEMBER  DAY 


A  NOVEMBER  DAY 

There  are  no  clouds  above  the  world, 
But  just  a  round  of  limpid  grey, 

Barred  here  with  nacreous  lines  unfurled, 
That  seem  to  crown  the  autumnal  day, 

With  rings  of  silver  chased  and  pearled. 

The  moistened  leaves  along  the  ground, 
Lie  heavy  in  an  aureate  floor; 

The  air  is  lingering  in  a  swound ; 
Afar  from  some  enchanted  shore, 

Silence  has  blown  instead  of  sound. 

The  trees  all  flushed  with  tender  pink 

Are  floating  in  the  liquid  air, 
Each  twig  appears  a  shadowy  link, 

To  keep  the  branches  moored  there, 
Lest  all  might  drift  or  sway  and  sink. 


A  NOVEMBER  DAY  77 

This  world  might  be  a  valley  low, 
In  some  lost  ocean  grey  and  old, 

Where  sea-plants  film  the  silver  flow, 
Where  waters  swing  above  the  gold 

Of  galleons  sunken  long  ago. 


78  OTTAWA 


OTTAWA 

City  about  whose  brow  the  north  winds  blow, 
Girdled  with  woods  and  shod  with  river  foam, 
Called  by  a  name  as  old  as  Troy  or  Rome, 

Be  great  as  they,  but  pure  as  thine  own  snow  ; 

Rather  flash  up  amid  the  auroral  glow, 
The  Lamia  city  of  the  northern  star, 
Than  be  so  hard  with  craft  or  wild  with  war, 

Peopled  with  deeds  remembered  for  their  woe. 

Thou  art  too  bright  for  guile,  too  young  for  tears, 
And  thou  wilt  live  to  be  too  strong  for  Time  ; 
For  he  may  mock  thee  with  his  furrowed  frowns, 
But  thou  wilt  grow  in  calm  throughout  the  years, 
Cinctured  with  peace  and  crowned  with  power 
sublime, 
The  maiden  queen  of  all  the  towered  towns. 


SONG  79 


SONG 

Here  'a  the  last  rose, 
And  the  end  of  June, 
With  the  tulips  gone 
And  the  lilacs  strewn  ; 
A  light  wind  blows 
From  the  golden  west, 
The  bird  is  charmed 
To  her  secret  nest : 
Here  's  the  last  rose — 
In  the  violet  sky 
A  great  star  shines, 
The  gnats  are  drawn 
To  the  purple  pines ; 
On  the  magic  lawn 
A  shadow  flows 
From  the  summer  moon  : 
Here's  the  last  rose, 
And  the  end  of  the  tune. 


80  NIGHT  AND  THE  PINES 


NIGHT  AND  THE  PINES 

Here  in  the  pine  shade  is  the  nest  of  night, 

Lined  deep  with  shadows,  odorous  and  dim, 
And  here  he  stays  his  sweeping  flight, 

Here  where  the  strongest  wind  is  lulled  for  him, 
He  lingers  brooding  until  dawn, 
While  all  the  trembling  stars  move  on  and  on. 

Under  the  cliff  there  drops  a  lonely  fall, 

Deep  and  half  heard  its  thunder  lifts  and  booms ; 
Afar  the  loons  with  eerie  call 

Haunt  all  the  bays,   and  breaking  through  the 
glooms 
Upfloats  that  cry  of  light  despair, 
As  if  a  demon  laughed  upon  the  air. 

A  raven  croaks  from  out  his  ebon  sleep, 

When  a  brown  cone  falls  near  him  through  the 
dark ; 

And  when  the  radiant  meteors  sweep 
Afar  within  the  larches  wakes  the  lark ; 


NIGHT  AND  THE  PINES  81 

The  wind  moves  on  the  cedar  hill, 

Tossing  the  weird  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will. 

Sometimes  a  titan  wind,  slumbrous  and  hushed, 

Takes  the  dark  grove  within  his  swinging  power ; 
And  like  a  cradle  softly  pushed, 

The  shade  sways  slowly  for  a  lulling  hour ; 
While  through  the  cavern  sweeps  a  cry, 
A  Sibyl  with  her  secret  prophecy. 

When  morning  lifts  its  fragile  silver  dome, 
And  the  first  eagle  takes  the  lonely  air, 
Up  from  his  dense  and  sombre  home 

The  night  sweeps  out,  a  tireless  wayfarer, 
Leaving  within  the  shadows  deep, 
The  haunting  mood  and  magic  of  his  sleep. 

And  so  we  cannot  come  within  this  grove, 

But  all  the  quiet  dusk  remembrance  brings 
Of  ancient  sorrow  and  of  hapless  love, 

Fate,  and  the  dream  of  power,  and  piercing  things 
Traces  of  mystery  and  might, 
The  passion-sadness  of  the  soul  of  night. 


82  A  NIGHT  IN  MARCH 


A  NIGHT  IN  MARCH 

At  eve  the  fiery  sun  went  forth 

Flooding  the  clouds  with  ruby  blood, 

Up  roared  a  war-wind  from  the  north 

And  crashed  at  midnight  through  the  wood. 

The  demons  danced  about  the  trees, 

The  snow  slipped  singing  over  the  wold, 

And  ever  when  the  wind  would  cease 
A  lynx  cried  out  within  the  cold. 

A  spirit  walked  the  ringing  rooms, 
Passing  the  locked  and  secret  door, 

Heavy  with  divers  ancient  dooms, 
With  dreams  dead  laden  to  the  core. 

'  Spirit,  thou  art  too  deep  with  woe, 
I  have  no  harbour  place  for  thee, 

Leave  me  to  lesser  griefs,  and  go, 
Go  with  the  great  wind  to  the  sea.' 


A  NIGHT  IN  MARCH  83 

I  faltered  like  a  frightened  child, 

That  fears  its  nurse's  fairy  brood, 
And  as  I  spoke,  I  heard  the  wild 

Wind  plunging  through  the  shattered  wood. 

'  Hast  thou  betrayed  the  rest  of  kings, 
With  tragic  fears  and  spectres  wan, 

My  dreams  are  lit  with  purer  things, 
With  humbler  ghosts,  begone,  begone.' 

The  noisy  dark  was  deaf  and  blind, 

Still  the  strange  spirit  strayed  or  stood, 

And  I  could  only  hear  the  wind 

Go  roaring  through  the  riven  wood. 

1  Art  thou  the  fate  for  some  wild  heart, 
That  scorned  his  cavern's  curve  and  bars, 

That  leaped  the  bounds  of  time  and  art, 
And  lost  thee  lingering  near  the  stars  ?  ' 

It  was  so  still  I  heard  my  thought, 

Even  the  wind  was  very  still, 
The  desolate  deeper  silence  brought 

The  lynx-moan  from  the  lonely  hill. 


84  A  NIGHT  IN  MARCH 

4  Art  thou  the  thing  I  might  have  been, 
If  all  the  dead  had  known  control, 

Risen  through  the  ages'  trembling  sheen, 
A  mirage  of  my  desert  soul  ?  ' 

The  wind  rushed  down  the  roof  in  wrath, 
Then  shrieked  and  held  its  breath  and  stood, 

Like  one  who  finds  beside  his  path, 
A  dead  girl  in  the  marish  wood. 

'  Or  have  I  ceased,  as  those  who  die 
And  leave  the  broken  word  unsaid, 

Art  thou  the  spirit  ministry 

That  hovers  round  the  newly  dead  ? ' 

The  auroras  rose  in  solitude, 

And  wanly  paled  within  the  room, 

The  window  showed  an  ebon  rood, 
Upon  the  blanched  and  ashen  gloom. 

I  heard  a  voice  within  the  dark. 
That  answered  not  my  idle  word, 

I  could  not  choose  but  pause  and  hark, 
It  was  so  magically  stirred. 


A  NIGHT  IN  MARCH  85 

It  grew  within  the  quiet  hour, 

With  the  rose  shadows  on  the  wall, 

It  had  a  touch  of  ancient  power, 
A  wild  and  elemental  fall ; 

Its  rapture  had  a  dreaming  close  : 
The  dawn  grew  slowly  on  the  wold, 

Spreading  in  fragile  veils  of  rose, 
In  tender  lines  of  lemon-gold. 

The  world  was  turning  into  light, 
Was  sweeping  into  life  and  peace, 

And  folded  in  the  fading  night, 
I  felt  the  dawning  sink  and  cease. 


86  SEPTEMBER 


SEPTEMBER 

The  morns  are  grey  with  haze  and  faintly  cold, 

The  early  sunsets  arc  the  west  with  red ; 

The  stars  are  misty  silver  overhead, 
Above  the  dawn  Orion  lies  outrolled. 
Now  all  the  slopes  are  slowly  growing  gold, 

And  in  the  dales  a  deeper  silence  dwells ; 

The  crickets  mourn  with  funeral  flutes  and  bells, 
For  days  before  the  summer  had  grown  old. 

Now  the  night-gloom  with  hurrying  wings  is  stirred, 
Strangely  the  comrade  pipings  rise  and  sink, 
The  birds  are  following  in  the  pathless  dark 
The  footsteps  of  the  pilgrim  summer.     Hark  ! 
Was  that  the  redstart  or  the  bobolink  ? 
That  lonely  cry  the  summer-hearted  bird  ? 


BY  THE  WILLOW  SPRING  87 


BY  THE  WILLOW  SPRING 


TO  E.  W. 


Come  hither,  Care,  and  look  on  this  fair  place, 

But  leave  your  gossip  and  your  puckered  face 

Beyond  that  flowering  carrot  in  the  glow, 

Where  the  red  poppies  in  the  orchard  blow, 

And  come  with  gentle  feet ;  the  last  thing  there 

Wras  a  white  butterfly  upon  the  air, 

And  even  now  a  thrush  was  in  the  grass, 

To  feel  the  sovereign  water  slowly  pass. 

This  pool  is  quiet  as  oblivion, 

Hidden  securely  from  the  flooding  sun  ; 

Its  crystal  placid  surface  here  receives 

The  wan  grey  under  light  of  the  willow  leaves  ; 

And  shy  things  brood  about  the  grass  unheard  ; 

Only  in  sunny  distance  sings  the  bird. 

O  Time  long  dead,  O  days  reclaimed  and  done, 

Thou  broughtest  joy  and  tears  to  every  one, 

And  here  by  this  deep  pool  thou  wast  not  slow, 

To  deal  a  maiden  all  her  tender  woe  ; 


88  BY  THE  WILLOW  SPRING 

Be  kindlier  to  her  now  that  she  is  dead, 
Let  her  charmed  spirit  visit  this  well-head 
More  often,  for  at  eve  in  honey-time, 
Drifting  in  silence  from  her  ghostly  clime, 
She  haunts  the  pool  about  the  willows  pale  : 
Be  gentle,  for  my  feeling  art  may  fail, 
I  '11  freshen  sorrow  and  retell  her  tale. 

She  was  a  fragile  daughter  of  the  earth, 
And  touched  with  faery  from  her  fatal  birth  ; 
For  many  summers  she  was  hardly  shy, 
Not  clouded  with  her  hovering  destiny, 
But  only  wild  as  any  woodland  thing, 
That  comes  at  even  to  a  trodden  spring ; 
And  scarce  she  seemed  of  any  settled  mood, 
That  lights  the  peaceful  hills  of  maidenhood, 
But  shifted  strangely  on  the  whimsy  air, 
Not  quiet  nor  contented  anywhere. 
She  gathered  sunshine  in  an  earthen  cruse, 
And  thought  to  keep  it  for  her  own  sweet  use  ; 
Or  fluttered  flowers  from  her  window  hiffh. 
And  wept  upon  them  when  they  would  not  fly  ; 
And  when  she  found  the  brownish  mignonette 
Had  blossomed  where  a  little  seed  was  set, 


BY  THE  WILLOW  SPRING  89 

She  planted  her  rag  playmate  in  the  sun, 

Because  she  wanted  yet  another  one  ; 

And  when  she  heard  the  enraptured  sparrow  sing, 

She  clamoured  for  a  song  from  everything. 

For  many  years  she  was  as  strange  and  free, 

As  a  pine  linnet  in  a  cedar  tree. 

Her  folk  thought :  She  is  very  wild  and  odd, 

But  she  is  good,  we  '11  wait  and  trust  in  God. 

O  love,  that  watched  the  weird  and  charmed  child, 

Change  from  her  airy  fancies  sweet  and  mild, 

Like  a  blue  brook  that  clears  a  meadow  spring, 

And  threads  the  barley  where  the  bobolinks  sing, 

Then  wimples  by  the  roots  of  dusky  firs, 

And  gathers  darkness  in  those  deeps  of  hers, 

Then  makes  an  arrowy  movement  through  a  pass, 

Where  rocks  are  crannied  with  the  clinging  grass, 

Then  falls,  almost  dissolved  in  silver  rain, 

She  gathers  deeply  to  a  pool  again  ; 

But  something  wild  in  her  new  spirit  lies, 

She  never  can  regain  her  limpid  eyes  : 

O  love,  alas  !  'twas  ever  so  to  be, 

When  streams  set  out  to  reach  the  bitter  sea. 

It  was  a  time  within  the  early  spring, 

Before  the  orchards  had  done  blossoming, 


00  BY  THE  WILLOW  SPRING 

Before  the  kinglet  on  his  northern  search, 

Had  ceased  his  timorous  piping  in  the  birch, 

When  streams  were  bright  before  the  coming  leaves 

And  gurgled  like  the  swallows  in  the  eaves, 

She  wandered  led  by  fancy  to  this  place, 

And  looked  upon  the  water's  crystal  face ; 

She  saw — what  thing  of  beauty  or  of  awe 

1  know  not,  no  one  knoweth  what  she  saw. 
But  ever  after  she  was  constant  here, 

As  silent  as  her  shadow  in  the  mere, 

Sitting  upon  a  stone  which  many  feet 

Had  grooved  and  trodden  for  the  water  sweet, 

And  leaning  gravely  on  her  slanted  arm, 

Her  fingers  buried  in  the  gravel  warm, 

She  gazed  and  gazed  and  did  not  speak  or  sigh, 

As  if  this  gazing  was  her  destiny. 

They  led  her  nightly  from  the  magic  pool, 

Before  the  shadows  grew  too  deep  and  cool ; 

They  thought  to  win  her  from  the  liquid  spell, 

And  tried  to  tease  the  elfin  maid  to  tell, 

What  was  the  charm  that  led  her  to  the  spring ; 

But  all  their  words  availed  not  anything. 

Then  gazed  they  on  the  surface  of  the  pool 

To  read  the  reason  of  such  subtle  rule  ; 


BY  THE  WILLOW  SPRING  91 

Their  eyes  were  overclouded,  they  could  see 
(Who  had  drawn  water  there  perpetually) 
Nothing  but  water  in  a  depth  serene, 
With  a  few  moony  stones  of  palish  green. 
They  thought  perchance  it  was  her  face  she  saw 
And  answered,  beauty  unto  beauty's  law, 
But  when  they  showed  her  image  in  a  glass, 
She  was  not  cured  and  nothing  came  to  pass ; 
So  then  they  left  her  to  her  own  strange  will, 
And  here    she    stayed  when  the    fair  pool  was 

still. 
But  when  the  wind  would  hurl  the  heavy  rain, 
She  peered  out  sadly  from  her  window-pane ; 
And  when  the  night  set  wildly  close  and  deep, 
She  took  her  trouble  down  the  dale  of  sleep  : 
But  when  the  night  was  warm  and  no  dew  fell, 
She  waked  and  dreamed  beside  the  starlit  well. 

Then  came  a  change,  each  day  some  offering 
She  laid  beside  the  clear  soft  flowing  spring  ; 
And  there  she  found  them  at  the  break  of  morn, 
And  everything  would  take  away  forlorn  ; 
Until  beside  the  unconscious  spring  was  laid 
Each  treasure  held  most  precious  by  a  maid. 


1)2  BY  THE  WILLOW  SPRING 

After,  she  offered  flowers  and  often  set 

A  bowlful  of  the  pleasant  mignonette, 

And  starred  the  stones  with  the  narcissus  white, 

And  pansies  left  athinking  all  the  night, 

Then  ruffled  dewy  dahlias,  and  at  last, 

When  sundown  told  the  summer-time  had  passed, 

The  stained  asters ;  but  from  day  to  day, 

Sadly  she  took  the  untouched  flowers  away. 

With  autumn  and  the  sounding  harvest  flute, 

She  brought  her  timid  god  the  heavy  fruit  ; 

But  found  it  still  and  cool  at  early  dawn, 

Beaded  with  dew  upon  the  crispy  lawn. 

At  last  one  eve  she  placed  an  apple  here, 

Smooth  as  a  topaz  and  as  golden  clear, 

Scented  like  almonds,  with  a  flesh  like  dew 

And  luscious-sweet  as  honey  through  and  through. 

She  left  it  sadly  on  the  sleepy  lawn, 

But  when  she  came  again  her  apple  gold  was  gone. 

Day  after  day  for  days  she  mutely  strove, 
Not  to  be  separate  from  her  placid  love ; 
Perchance  she  thought  that,  breaking  through  the 

spell, 
Her  shadow-god,  deep  in  the  tranquil  well, 


BY  THE  WILLOW  SPRING  93 

Had  taken  her  last  gift ; — no  man  may  know  ; 
Her  fancies  merged  with  all  mute  things  that  go 
The  poppied  path,  dreams  and  desires  foredone, 
The  unplucked  roses  of  oblivion. 
But  now  she  searched  for   words    that  would 

express 
Something  of  all  her  spirit's  loneliness  ; 
And  formed  a  liquid  jargon,  full  of  falls 
As  weird  and  wild  as  ariel  madrigals  ; 
Our  human  tongue  was  far  too  harsh  for  this, 
Or  her  slight  spirit  bore  too  great  a  bliss ; 
But  always  grew  she  very  faint  and  pale, 
Day  after  day  her  beauty  grew  more  frail, 
More  mute,  more  eerie,  more  ethereal ; 
Her  soul  burned  whitely  in  its  waning  shell. 

Then  came  the  winter  with  his  frosty  breath 
And  made  the  world  an  image  of  white  death, 
And  like  to  death  he  found  the  charmed  child  ; 
Yet  could  not  kill  her  with  his  bluster  wild. 
Only  in  his  first  days  she  went  about, 
And  sadly  hearkened  to  his  hearty  shout ; 
From  windows  where  the  wizard  frost  had  traced 
Moth-wings  of  rime  with  silver  ferns  inlaced, 


<J4  BY  THE  WILLOW  SPRING 

She  saw  her  pool  set  coldly  in  the  drift, 
Where  in  the  autumn  she  had  left  her  gift, 
Capped  with  a  cloud  of  silver  steam  or  smoke, 
That    hovered    there    whether     she    dreamed    or 

woke; 
And  often  stealing  from  her  early  sleep, 
She  watched  the  light  cloud  in  the  midnight  deep, 
Waver  and  blow  beneath  the  moon's  white  globe, 
Shivering  and  whispering  in  her  chilly  robe. 
At  last  she  would  not  look  or  speak  at  all, 
And  turned  her  large  eyes  to  the  shaded  wall. 
Now  she  is  dead,  they  thought ;  but  never  so, 
She  died  not  when  the  winter  winds  did  blow ; 
She  was  a  spirit  of  the  summer  air, 
She  would  not  vanish  at  the  year's  despair. 

At  length  the  merry  sun  grew  warm  and  high, 
And  changed  the  wildwood  with  his  alchemy  ; 
The  violet  reared  her  bell  of  drooping  gold, 
And  over  her  the  robin  chimed  and  trolled. 
When  the  first  slender  moon  of  May  had  come, 
That  finds  the  blithe  bird  busy  at  his  home, 
They  missed  the  spirit  maiden  from  the  room, 
That  now  was  sweet  with  light  and  spring  perfume, 


BY  THE  WILLOW  SPRING  95 

And  called  her  all  the  echoing  afternoon  ; 
She  answered  not,  but  when  the  growing  moon 
Went  down  the  west  with  the  last  bird  awing, 
They  found  her  dead  beside  her  darling  spring. 

This  is  her  tale,  her  murmurous  monument 
Flows  softly  where  her  fragile  life  was  spent, 
Not  grooved  in  brass  nor  trenched  in  pallid  stone, 
But  told  by  water  to  the  reeds  alone. 

She  cometh  here  sometimes  on  summer  eves, 

Her  quiet  spirit  lingers  in  the  leaves, 

And  while  this  spring  flows  on,  and  while  the  wands 

Sway  in  the  moonlight,  while  in  drifting  bands, 

The  thistledown  blows  gleaming  in  the  air, 

And  dappled  thrushes  haunt  the  precinct  fair  ; 

She  will  return,  she  will  return  and  lean 

Above  the  crystal  in  the  covert  green, 

And  dream  of  beauty  on  the  shadow  flung 

Of  irised  distance  when  the  world  was  young. 

Let  us  be  gone ;  this  is  no  place  for  tears, 
Let  us  go  slowly  with  the  guardian  years  ; 
Let  us  be  brave,  the  day  is  almost  done, 
Another  setting  of  the  pleasant  sun. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty, 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press. 


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The  magic 
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